


Trapdoor

by thesnadger



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Mind Games, Monsters, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23644684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesnadger/pseuds/thesnadger
Summary: There are many dangers in this new, terrible world, not all of them straightforward. Sometimes the hardest part of fighting is knowing where to swing. At least Jon and Martin are together.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 57
Kudos: 202





	Trapdoor

**Author's Note:**

> inb4 we get a real good look at the world post-fearmageddon and I have to rewrite everything.

“Where are you going?”

Martin turned to Jon who stood a few paces back, looking quizzical. “Towards the hills? You just said it would be safer there.”

“I absolutely did not say that.” Jon replied. “I said we ought to go this way,” he gestured in the direction he’d been turning. “Stick to the lower places, where there’s less room for things to sneak up.”

The rolling, rocky countryside had been suspiciously innocuous lately. Unsettlingly normal. For the last few kilometers, nothing had leaped out at them or tried to lure them towards apparent safety. No part of the world had suddenly twisted or inverted around them. In fact, for some time the terrain they’d been walking across had done an impressive job of resembling ordinary Scottish land on a gray and drizzly morning. It was leaving both of them tense, anxious, waiting for the hammer to fall.

“. . .I’m pretty sure I heard you.” Martin looked back at the hills. “And it _feels_ safer to go that way? I dunno, higher ground? Doesn’t that seem right?”

“Martin.” Jon put his hands on Martin’s arms, speaking slowly and carefully. “You might want to consider the possibility that something is _making_ you feel that way.”

“That doesn’t sound ri - - ah.” Martin caught himself. “Maybe. Er,” he lifted his arms. “Have I got any spiders on me?”

Jon peered over him nervously. “I mean. I don’t see any, but it’s not likely going to be that simple.”

“How do we know which way is safe, then?” Martin asked. “If we’re possibly dealing with mind control, it could be tricking you as well.”

“It’s wise to be skeptical where these things are concerned.” Jon said, “But I _was_ able to see in the Unknowing, and I think this may be similar. Besides that, you seem a little . . . dazed, to me?”

“Yeah. . .” Now that he was focusing on it, he had to admit that his head felt off somehow. “I guess I am feeling a little . . . dazed.”

“I think that my connection to the Eye is the only thing keeping keep me safe. We ought to move as quickly as we can.” Jon looked at him intently. “If this place is affecting your mind, you might not be able to trust everything you see and hear. So stay close to me, try to ignore anything strange. I’ll guide you.”

There was something moving in Martin’s peripheral vision. Tiny ripples formed in the dirt, as if something was shifting underground. He swore he could hear a muffled noise, like a shuffling or hissing, coming from nearby.

“Don’t focus on it.” Jon’s hand came up to tilt Martin’s face towards his own. “Whatever you’re seeing, I’m pretty sure looking at it is a mistake. Just look at me. Focus on my voice. You can trust me.”

“Right.” That noise was getting louder, and Martin tried to ignore it. “Looking is probably a mistake. . . .”

Even out of the corner of his eye, though, Martin could tell that thing was moving closer. He was relieved when Jon turned, hand clasping his, and started leading him away from it.

“This way,” Jon said, pulling gently but quickly at him. “Try to keep your eyes on me.”

But it was _really hard_ not to look down when the mud started to swirl around at their heels. The sound coming from below was just loud enough for Martin to make out a word.

_ Stop-- _

And he was pretty sure he did not want to listen to the _ground telling him to stop moving_ , so he decided to quicken his pace a little. But he hadn't gotten far before the soil opened up behind him and a hand, black with mud, reached out and gripped his ankle.

Martin yelped and pulled away, but the hand’s grip was tight, and he only succeeded in yanking half an arm out of the ground with it.

“Don’t look down!” Jon’s voice came from behind him, hand still gripping his. “That’s how it pulls you in. Just keep moving!”

And Martin would have done as he said, except at that moment the soil shifted and a pair of shoulders joined the arm, as did the rough shape of a human head. There were more arms surrounding it, bent and twisted ones with joints like the legs of an insect and long, grasping hands. They reached out and wrapped around the muddy figure to pull it back down, but it was quickly struggling free. Choking, gasping and spitting mud, Jon’s face emerged from below.

“S-stop--” he gasped, looking wild-eyed at Martin “Stop _listening to it!_ ”

“Oh my God . . . Jon!?” Martin stared at the half-buried figure.

“Let him go!” Jon’s voice growled from behind him, directed at the muddy silhouette. “He’s not for you!”

The Jon that was covered in mud coughed and spat out a gobbet of earth, its hand still gripping Martin’s leg . He was pulling him towards the mud, he realized, and the grasping hands. Or, no, was he pulling himself out? Or was he just pulling Martin towards himself, away from the one who was holding him?

The one who was - - there was still a hand gripping his hand. Whose...whose hand was on him . . . .?

“Martin. _Look_ at it.” The Jon clinging to his ankle fixed a penetrating gaze on him. Martin felt something . . . a painful moment of light piercing the haze in his mind. “Look at what you’ve been talking to _._ ”

Martin looked back at the thing holding his hand. It was definitely not Jon. It had too many limbs, and not enough eyes, and when it smiled there was a hissing sound like that of a chittering insect.

He screamed, pulling his hand back and trying back away. Unfortunately the real Jon still held his ankle, so he didn’t back away so much as stumble and fall flat onto the ground. The monster loomed. It no longer looked like Jon, but it retained just enough detail - his scarred right hand, the color of his shirt, the lower half of his face now split with a too wide grin - to make everything else seem worse.

“Get away - -” Jon’s voice was hoarse, rough with the soil he’d been trapped in, but there was fire in it. “Get - - away from him.”

The creature froze in place as Jon pulled himself up beside Martin. Martin assumed that Jon’s gaze was keeping it still, but he wasn’t going to rely on the Watcher if he could help it. He took the moment of distraction as a chance to sweep the creature’s legs. Having a dozen, spindly, twisting limbs might be good for frightening people who wander into your terrible pit trap. But they didn’t provide much in terms of stability. The creature went down, landing half on top of Martin.

In a panic, he kicked it towards the hole that Jon had crawled out of. A new arm shot out of the ground just as the monster began to rise. A hand wrapped around one if its gangly legs, and was joined by another. Then another, and another, and many more, until it was looked more like a tangle of chitinous wire than anything remotely humanoid.

Martin and Jon scrabbled back from the pits’ edge as the thing was dragged down and swallowed, screaming inhumanly. The ground went quiet again, and the two of them stopped and breathed.

“Are you all right?” Jon asked.

Martin nodded. “I think so. What about you?”

“I think so.” Jon cleared his throat, voice still raw. “I wasn’t down there long. If, ah, if suffocation were lethal here I’d probably be in more trouble.”

“Here, hang on. . . .” Martin shrugged off his backpack. He was glad he’d had the foresight to bring some bottles of water, despite neither of them feeling thirst anymore. He’d known they’d have some practical use -- or, if he was being honest with himself, tea-related use. But this seemed the more immediate concern.

Jon took the water gratefully, swishing his mouth out and spitting a few times, then attempted to clean himself off. His clothes weren’t going to be pristine again, that was for certain, but he managed to get from ‘dirt monster’ to ‘man who’s been tramping through the muddy woods.’ Which wasn't far from where they’d both been to begin with, and would have to do.

“Stepped in the wrong spot.” Jon muttered as he scrubbed at his hair. “I was underground in an instant.”

“I didn’t even see. I’m sorry.” Martin said.

“It’s not your fault.” Jon replied. “That thing was toying with your mind. I could see it even from down there, but I couldn’t reach you. . . .”

“We should get moving again.” Martin said, getting to his feet. “That thing might be able to crawl out too.”

“Yes. You’re right.” Jon pulled himself up, brushing off what remaining soil he could, and took Martin’s hand. “Towards the hills?”

Martin nodded, slinging the bag back over his shoulder.

“Jon. . .” a startlingly familiar voice came from behind them. “What’s going on?”

Martin turned and found himself facing a figure that looked only vaguely like him. Actually, it would be more right to say it looked _exactly_ like he would look if a number of long, twisted monster arms burst from his back and wrapped themselves around his head and body. It was covered in black mud and one of those long hands obscured the top corner of its face. It stood a few meters away, but Martin could still make out its expression, which was a mocking mimicry of concern.

The Martin-thing held out a hand. “Jon, listen, that’s not me,” it said. Its voice sounded off, though that much might just be because Martin was used to hearing his own voice resonate in his head. “I don’t know what it is, but that isn’t me.”

If the image hadn’t been so unsettling, Martin might have laughed at it. “Nice try? But I don't think he's going to buy it.”

Martin looked over at Jon, who was staring in shock at the Martin-thing. He turned back to Martin and his eyes narrowed with suspicion and concern. Martin groaned inwardly.

“Seriously?” He said. “You’re not really fooled by _that_ thing, are you? It’s covered in weird spider-arms and dripping with _mud_.”

“Is that what you see?” Jon asked, brow knit.

“I mean, yes?”

“Because he looks entirely normal to me. And--” Jon tensed and Martin felt static at the edges of his perception. A quiet, pained grunt came from between Jon’s teeth. “He looks. . .authentic. Real,” he glanced back at Martin, looking intently at him. “So do you, incidentally.”

“Well thanks very much.” Martin said.

“I, ah.” Jon frowned. “I’m not sure. . .what to do with this?”

There was silence for a while as the three of them stared at each other, not moving. Jon was still holding Martin’s arm, but his grip had tightened a little. Martin suddenly wasn’t sure if Jon was clinging to him, or keeping him in place.

“Okaaay.” The Other Martin said. “So, uh. . . Jon, when you were still working in research, I picked your name for the yearly White Elephant. I barely knew you at that point, so I made the mistake of asking Tim what _he_ thought you’d want. I probably should have realized the ‘it’s wine o’clock somewhere’ t-shirt wasn’t actually your style, but I thought maybe you and Tim had a similar sense of humor and you dressed differently when you weren’t at work.”

“Oh, we’re doing _that,_ are we?” Martin said, annoyed. “Fine. I didn’t let you eat lunch alone for two weeks after you were stabbed. You didn’t want to talk about any of the things you were obsessed with at the time, so I started chatting about anything I could think of to fill the silence. Somehow I got onto cartoons we grew up with and that’s how I found out you’ve never played a Pokemon game but you know a really _suspicious_ amount about the anime.”

The Martin-Thing? Other Martin? Martin was just going to think of it as the other one. It frowned through the tangle of its limbs at Martin’s response.

“The first time you told me that you loved me was on the train to Scotland,” it said, and hearing it talk about that made Martin’s teeth clench. “I was so startled to hear it that I froze and didn’t respond at all, and you started apologizing, worrying you’d made a mistake.”

“Our first night in the safehouse--” Martin said. “You were stroking my hair because you thought I was asleep. I thought you might stop if I opened my eyes, so I just kept pretending. I didn’t tell you about it for a week.”

“Two weeks after we met--” the other one began.

“Stop, _stop!_ ” Jon shouted, waved his free hand in the air. “None of that proves _anything_. There are creatures in this world _quite_ capable of stealing memories, of replacing or re-writing them. You should _both_ know that,” he added with a glare, “regardless of whether you’re real or not.”

The other one frowned. “Jon, it’s me . . . .”

The thing took a step closer and Martin started to back away. Jon kept his grip on him, though that only meant he was pulled along a step or two before he dug his heels into the soft earth.

“Don’t!” he snapped, and Martin stopped moving. Jon released his arm, pose tense, his gaze shooting wildly between them. “Don’t move. Just- - both of you stay where I can see you.”

“Okay. Okay . . .” Martin held up his hands. He could see Jon was starting to panic, and tried to sound calm. “I’m not moving.”

The other one mirrored Martin's pose and Jon nodded, frowning. He backed a step or two away, positioning himself more evenly between the two Martins. His arms were a little out from his sides, as if making ready to grab or push away either one.

“Maybe don’t get too close to it, though?” Martin said, an edge of worry in his voice. “Just in case? Okay?”

“Yeah,” the other one shot back, audibly offended. “Don’t get too close to _it,_ Jon.”

Jon pressed a hand to his forehead, sighing. “Just - just let me think, all right?”

“Right. Take all the time you need.” the other one said, its tone unpleasantly familiar.

Jon paced back and forth with agitation, always keeping his eyes on one of them. Martin watched the other one, in case it made a move for Jon or for him. He couldn’t help but notice It was looking back at him with what he assumed was an identical, watchful expression. Mimics were absolutely the _worst_.

“Either somehow _both_ of you are really Martin,” Jon muttered, still pacing “or my perception’s being altered in a way I can’t break through. But if it’s the latter I don’t know how we’d proceed. If they both look real, maybe it means _neither_ of them is? But if that’s the case the real Martin could be anywhere, and how am I supposed to find him if I can’t trust what I see. . . .”

“I mean - -” Martin couldn’t help but feel a _little_ hurt hearing Jon talk about him as if he was both not there and not, in fact, real. It wasn’t his fault, but it did sting a bit. “How could we _both_ be real?”

“Does that seem impossible at this point?” Jon threw his arms in the air. “That something could split a person in two? Or double them? That would feed into _some_ thing, surely. The -- the existential fear of it all. Not to mention the fear of being deceived, of unreality, paranoia. . . .”

Martin considered this. “Well. . . that’s fair. But we both saw that other Jon. After that, it seems more likely that one of us is a trick,” he sighed, glaring at the other one. “And I mean. _I_ know which one’s real, but I don’t know how I can prove it to you.”

“You didn’t say _you_ were real.” The other one said triumphantly. “You said ‘I know which one,’ that’s probably a tell, Jon.”

“I meant _me,_ I’m real, I was just trying not to be _rude._ ”

“All right, all right. If nothing else either one of you _could_ be a . . . a replacement.” Jon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “But unless I _know,_ I can’t take the risk of leaving the real Martin behind. So I think we’re all just going to have to stick together until one of you tries to, I don’t know, enslave my will or turn me inside out or something.”

“That’s a _bad plan,_ Jon.” The other one said.

“Yeah, I kind of have to agree with the other one?” Martin said. “I mean, you’re talking about _definitely_ letting an evil doppleganger tag along, I can’t see that ending well.”

“Well unless _one_ of you wants to tear off a Martin skin and get this over with, I don’t see any other options!” Jon snapped, frustrated.

There was a pause, then the other one spoke up.

“What if you _asked_ us who we are?” it suggested. “I mean. . .nothing’s been able to lie to you so far, right?”

Jon considered. He looked at Martin for permission, and he nodded.

“Yeah, all right.” he said. “Do it.”

“ _Who are you?_ ” Jon’s voice reverberated, reaching into him. The words came out with no resistance.

“I’m Martin Blackwood,” he said.

Jon looked guarded but a measure of relief showed in him, and Martin smiled at that.

“ _And who are you?_ ” Jon asked the other.

“I’m Martin Blackwood,” it said, “I'm your boyfriend.”

“I mean, I'm your boyfriend _too_.” Martin said, frowning. Hearing that thing say _those words_ in particular made his stomach twist a little. “I just didn’t think that was what you were asking.”

Jon was quiet for a moment, considering, then he looked at the other one. “ _Who were you an hour ago?_ ”

“I was Martin Blackwood,” it said. “I’ve always been.”

“ _And you?_ ” Jon turned back to Martin. “ _Who were you an hour ago?_ ”

“I was mud.” Martin said. “Eternally grasping, flowing ever downwards. I was hands, many and needful, aching to grip and wrench and pull. I was the thought of hands, hands that grip the mind. Ones you cannot pull away from without ripping out the most vulnerable parts of yourself. And now, I am Martin Blackwood.”

Martin blinked, hand halfway to his throat. The words had poured out of him, he hadn’t even needed to think. Where had they come from?

“I. . .I don’t. I don’t know why I said that?” He laughed nervously. “Why would I say that?”

Jon’s eyes were wide with fear and he backed towards the other one, arm out as if to separate Martin from it. And that wasn’t _fair_. Why was he trusting that thing over him? It didn’t even _look_ like him.

“Keep away from it.” Jon said.

“Yeah, I _got_ that.” The thing behind him replied.

“Wait- I, I know how this must sound,” Martin tried to explain, “but it’s got to be some kind of trick. I don’t know where those words came from. It’s me. It’s the real me, I promise.”

“I very much doubt that.” Jon said, his voice cold. He was looking at Martin with such _hatred,_ and it stirred something raw and panicky in him.

“Ask me again!” Martin pleaded, voice trembling. “I’ll get it right this time, just ask again!”

“The answer will be the same.” Jon said firmly.

“Jon.” The thing standing behind him put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, speaking softly. “We should probably run. It feels like this is going to get worse really, really soon.”

“ _Don’t!_ ” Martin resisted the urge to step closer, afraid that if he did Jon would just do as the other one said and start running. “I’m me. I’m Martin Blackwood. You _heard_ me say it, you _know_ it’s true. I’m Martin.”

“But you’re also a trap.” Jon said. When he opened his mouth again, his voice pierced through Martin’s entire being. “ _Aren’t you?_ ”

This time he _did_ resist, tried to close his mouth as he the words welled up in him. But it was no use.

“Yes.” Tears gathered in Martin’s eyes as the truth forced its way through his lips. “A trap for you.”

“No different than the other half of it.” Jon nodded solemnly. “Just a little bit crueler.”

Martin was dizzy. Everything felt like it was falling away. His own words reverberated in his head, taunting him, and he wanted to scream. Then Jon turned and began to walk away, and Martin _did_ panic.

“Wait! Please, just let me come with you,” he begged. “I’m not - I won’t cause trouble. I won’t even complain about the other one, I promise. I - -” he swallowed. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He saw Jon hesitate, gripping the other one a little more tightly, and it held him tightly back. It _hurt_. That thing didn’t look or feel remotely right, but it was holding Jon. Holding and being held by him while Martin was left outside. Only a few meters away, but it may as well have been the full length of the earth.

“I _feel_ like myself. I feel like _. . ._ like him,” admitting to being something other than Martin was almost physically painful, but he pressed on. “Like Martin. Maybe I didn’t used to be, but I am now.”

“A hand that can conceive of itself,” Jon said darkly. “Clenched by an unseen mind.”

Fairchild’s words now echoed by Jon rang in his memory. The old man had been right. It _was_ horrid. Martin didn’t want to think about any of it. He just wanted to run to Jon, pull him into his arms, hold him close and be held. Couldn’t he just have that? Couldn’t it be that simple?

“I love you.” Martin said. “You can _ask_ me, I’ll say it a thousand times, because it’s true.”

“. . . But you’ll still hurt him,” the other one said. Its voice was as gentle as its words were cruel. “Even if you don’t want to, it’s what you were made to do. The trap is going to close eventually.”

Martin shook his head violently. It wasn’t true. Whatever he might be, he wouldn’t hurt Jon. He just wanted to stay with him. He wanted to wrap his arms around Jon and never let go. He wanted to bury Jon’s face in his chest and hold him close and promise he was safe with him and be _believed_. Even if they weren’t his, he had memories of a thousand loving embraces. A thousand more gentle touches, kisses, tender looks. They felt no less real than this moment did.

At the same time, he knew Jon would never hold him again. Not willingly. Not anymore.

Something was moving under the earth, snaking closer to the three of them. Something that also wanted to hold them very, very close. Based on the uneasy way they were starting to look at the ground, Martin suspected they felt it rumbling.

“If you love him,” the other one spoke quickly, his voice wavering as the soil shook. “If you’re really _me_ enough to love him, then I think you want him to be safe. And I’m sorry, but he’s not going to be safe with you.”

The heaviness of his words settled on Martin like the weight of all creation. He felt a thousand grasping hands reach out, fingers just breaking the surface of the soil. The two men holding tightly to one another jumped as the earth shifted around them. Then all at once the hands lost their will, and dissolved back into mud.

Martin sat on the ground. He held himself and looked down at the dirt, which was where he truly belonged. He’d keep his gaze fixed there until he heard them leave, then he’d look up and he’d be alone. A hand that could conceive of itself, with nothing to hold.

“. . . Martin?”

Jon’s voice was soft, and Martin assumed he was talking to the other one, the _real_ one, the one who deserved him. But he repeated the name closer this time, and Martin looked up.

Jon stood just a little more than an arm’s length away. The other one was behind him, a hand held protectively on his shoulder. Jon leaned forward, face soft and sad, and Martin took a shallow breath.

“Maybe. . .” Jon said, gently “you should go back to being mud. I think it would be easier than being human. It wouldn’t . . . hurt as much.”

Slowly, Martin nodded. He didn’t remember being mud, but he was pretty damn sure it hurt a lot less than this.

“I don’t know if I can, though,” he said, an ache in his voice. “I don’t. . . I don’t know how to stop being Martin.”

“I can help you, I think.” Jon said. “If you’d let me.”

“But what if. . .” Martin frowned. “If- if I’m mud again. I won’t . . . I mean. . .what if I try to--”

“Then we’ll run.” Jon sounded confident, calm. “We’ve gotten away from worse before. You remember, don’t you?”

He _did_ remember, in fact. Dozens of panicked escapes since the day they left the cabin. Memories of fear, of adrenaline, and of the fierce, mad victory of knowing you’ve reached the other side. They _had_ dealt with worse. He looked questioningly at the other one, who nodded.

“Y-yes.” Martin said softly. “Yes. I’d . . . I’d like to be mud again. Please.”

He felt a vast and painful awareness reach into him, and it pulled out the story of a kind, nervous man who was always underestimated.

The mud slid away from the curves and angles of Martin Blackwood. Details fell back one by one - a quiet night working late, a hand gripping desperately at another, a sweater worn threadbare. For a moment, the mud felt the softest sensation of loss. Then a comfortable hunger returned to it and that feeling dissolved. Filled with relief and clarity once more it reached eagerly, gratefully, to grasp its nearby prey.

The two men staggered back, making the sounds that creatures make when they’re afraid, and their short clumsy limbs scrabbled around them. More of the mud came to join it. Dozens upon dozens of limbs, eternally grasping with an ache to wrench and pull, slid up from the ground to encircle the pair.

But this prey was quick. It was armed, and though the simple weapons could not do the mud any real damage, they were enough to knock limbs aside and open gaps in the tangle, clearing a path for escape. The mud stretched so many limbs to their limit, but its prey reached higher ground and soon it could not follow. Instead it watched eyelessly as they ran towards the hills where the ground would be too dry and too solid for mud to form.

There were countless dangers ahead of them, but this one, they’d escaped. They would not be wrapped in a thousand clutching arms, would not feel the grasping fingers twist in their hearts, would not be pulled into the endless down.

As the tangle of its limbs swirled in frustrated hunger, the mud laughed. It laughed, and laughed, in joy and in relief, as the two figures vanished into the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> Me @ every TMA character: YOU get a monster identity crisis, and YOU get a monster identity crisis, and YOU-


End file.
